He buttons his shirt
to the rhythm of the downpour.
Tormented man and torrent of rain,
last breath that departs
before the embrace of dear death.
The silk that softens,encloses,encases
the rotting of his memories–
broken bones and blackening bruises,
all preserved underneath that cloth
where I once knew
what it meant to know,
to sink so far–awake in the dim caverns of my mind.
He watched me collapse within my sorrow,
foul fortune that still stained my palms
when he to crumbled into eternity,
to be what I could never be,
to be but never be.
The drunken man who I feared,
so poetic in all that he was;
Even in dying, his name, I revered:
Frail linen carried across the wind.
Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts on this poem with me.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”